


The Trouble With Feelings

by TenMillionPhotographs



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: AU, Basically, Fluff and Angst, Hate to Love, Human Bill Cipher, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenMillionPhotographs/pseuds/TenMillionPhotographs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First hate. Then love. Then hate again. And then...whatever the hell you want to call this.</p><p>Ever since Dipper got involved with Bill, things have been complicated, to say the least. That's why he swore that after their break-up, the two of them would never, ever speak again. And it worked, until that one unexpected night that he still can't quite remember brought his eccentric ex crashing back into his life. Now he's left with some conflicting feelings, and a proposal that he just might accept.</p><p>A proposal that might lead him to answer the age-old question: is there really such a thing as no-strings-attached?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tiny Umbrellas and Too Many Pillows

Dipper woke up to the ringing of his phone and the pounding of his head, and he instantly knew it was going to be an absolutely hellish morning. He groped blindly for his phone, refusing to open his eyes and acknowledge that he was conscious. The high-pitched default ringtone was coming from underneath Dipper’s unusually fluffy pillow. He grabbed the phone and pressed several buttons until finally the sound disappeared. 

He only enjoyed a few seconds of peace before the noise that had so rudely awakened him returned once again. With a small groan of protest, he pulled his smartphone from underneath the pillow and opened his eyes, squinting against the headache to see who was calling him so relentlessly.

It didn’t surprise him when he saw Mabel’s picture smiling at him from the much-too-bright screen. Dipper pressed the phone to his ear and rolled over onto his back, trying to get rid of the nauseous turning of his stomach.

“Hello,” he said, hearing the grogginess of his own voice.

“Hello? Dipper?” the voice on the other line - familiar, but definitely not his sister - said quietly. 

“Um, yeah. Who is this?” Dipper asked. He pulled himself slowly to a sitting position and glanced confusedly at his surroundings as he waited for a response. This was not his room.

“This is Candy. Candy Chiu. Mabel’s fr—”

“Yeah, I-I know who you are. Why are you calling me from Mabel’s phone?”

“Well, she’s a little busy right now, since, you know, she’s getting married in about an hour.”

“Oh. Oh my god,” was all Dipper could say, pulling the phone away from his ear to glance at the time at the top of the screen.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon. How the hell was it one o’clock in the afternoon? And why wasn’t Dipper in the hotel room that he clearly remembered checking into yesterday?

He started untangling himself from the overly downy comforter that was swallowing him whole as Candy continued.

“Yeah, and since nobody’s heard from you all day, I thought maybe I should call you—”

“Oh crap,” Dipper muttered, interrupting his sister’s flustered bridesmaid as he came to the realization that he was also completely naked.

“Dipper? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“That…that is a great question, Candy, but just please tell Mabel not to freak out because I will be there, alright? I’m on my way, like, right this second.”

Dipper finished throwing the heavy blankets out of his way as he climbed out of bed, searching the room for his clothes.

“Um, okay, but I think she’d feel better if she knew where you were…” Candy replied confusedly.

_Yeah, so would I,_ Dipper almost said. Instead he crouched down on the floor, finally discovering a pile of his clothes underneath the giant bed he’d woken up in. He snatched them off the floor and started throwing them on, doing his best to forget the headache from hell as he scrambled to get dressed.

“Dipper? What’s going—”

“Sorry, I, um, I have to go now,” Dipper said. He ended the call and tossed his phone onto the bed so he could properly fumble with the buttons on his shirt. 

He was about halfway done when he realized he wasn’t alone.

“Leaving so soon?”

Dipper’s head whipped around to find the owner of the voice he didn’t want to recognize. There _he_ was, standing casually in the bedroom doorway, drinking something from a glass with a straw and a tiny umbrella, and worst of all, wearing that snide little grin that Dipper hated so much.

“You,” Dipper said, feeling the cold, cold mixture of dread and shame wash over him.

“Here I am,” Bill replied.

“Did…did we…?”

“Afraid so.”

“Oh no,” Dipper groaned, collapsing back onto the bed face-first and wishing against all logic that the puffy comforter would just suffocate him and end his short life as a piece of sentient rotting garbage. 

Anything but this. Any day but today. Anyone but him.

“Oh, stop being overdramatic. These things happen,” Bill said, as if it didn’t matter.

“No, they don’t,” Dipper said, rolling onto his back so he could speak without getting a mouthful of blankets. “This can’t happen. You can’t be here.” 

And, come to think of it, it truly didn’t make sense that the ex-from-hell that Dipper had successfully avoided for a year, even though they both lived in New York, would suddenly show up in Honolulu on the weekend of Mabel’s big wedding. It was too much of a coincidence. 

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I _can_ be here,” Bill said, “seeing as this is my dad’s vacation house. One of them, at least. And I’m borrowing it. For _vacation.”_

“Stop talking to me like that,” Dipper muttered, feeling his shame boiling into anger at Bill’s condescending tone.

“Like what?” Bill replied, taking a noisy sip of his drink.

“Oh, come on! You’re so…you’re such a little kid, Bill. A manipulative, bratty little kid.” 

Dipper sat up and tossed one of the many pillows from Bill’s oversized bed at the doorway. It missed Bill by a mile and slammed into the wall instead, but Dipper still felt like he got his point across. 

“This is all your fault,” Dipper continued. “I would never do something this stupid on my own.”

“Is that so?” Bill said. “That’s funny, seeing as you were the one who started talking to me first last night.” 

Dipper felt his face burning. 

“What…n-no, I didn’t,” he said, hurling another pillow. 

It flew over Bill’s head, and he didn’t even flinch. He just stared Dipper dead in the eye with that awful, ugly little smirk of his. He sipped his drink again, but the cup was mostly empty, and the straw filled Dipper’s embarrassed silence with that awful slurping sound. 

“You definitely did,” Bill insisted. “You came up to me and started yelling about how much you hated me, remember? And then it was all downhill from there, obviously.”

As he said it, Dipper did vaguely remember something like that happening the night before in the bar across the street from his hotel. 

“Yeah, w-well…I was drunk, so…”

Bill scoffed. “Yeah, and so was I. And since you started the conversation, I’d say this whole thing is _your_ fault.” 

The blond slurped his straw again, still wearing that shit-eating grin.

“Just shut up!” Dipper threw two more pillows at him, this time actually hitting his target. Sadly, pillows don’t do much damage. “And stop slurping your straw! You know I hate it when you do that!”

“What? I knew no such thing!” Bill said sarcastically.

Dipper flung another pillow. “You’re not funny!” he shouted. “And why does this bed have so many pillows?” 

“I know, right? It’s like sleeping in a bag of marshmallows,” Bill said, slurping the straw once more, just to get on Dipper’s nerves. 

How had Dipper let this happen? How had he spent another night with the person he hated most in the entire world? He buried his face in his hands. “I’m gonna throw up.” 

“Not on my bed, you’re not,” Bill said. “Anyway, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Suddenly, for the second time that day, Dipper remembered that his sister was getting married. Now he had less than an hour to get there on time.

“Oh crap, the wedding.” He jumped off the bed and raced for the doorway. Bill stopped him with a jab to the chest.

“Your shirt’s still half unbuttoned. And you’re not wearing pants.”

Dipper looked down to see that he was, in fact, wearing only a half buttoned flannel and boxers. He turned around and began searching for his jeans without a word. He found them thrown halfway across the room, on top of a dresser, and he tried not to imagine how that might have happened as he pulled them on.

“So, who’s getting married? Your sister?”

Dipper decided not to respond. It would only encourage him.

“Makes sense. She was always the prettier twin.”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “Screw you.”

“Again?”

Dipper tensed, before taking a deep breath and acknowledging the fact that he’d set himself up for that one. He began repeating the phrase “don’t get mad, it’s what he wants” over and over in his mind. 

Then, Dipper responded as calmly as possible, “I need to get back to my hotel so I can change. Can you please call me a taxi?”

“Alright,” Bill smirked, “You’re a taxi.” 

“Seriously?” Dipper said, before grabbing his phone and shoving past Bill who was laughing too hard at his own joke to stop him.

He stormed into the next room, which was a giant sunroom that Dipper would’ve stopped to gawk at had he not been in such a foul mood. He picked up the pace when he heard Bill’s obnoxious laughter following behind him.

“I can drop you off if you want,” Bill offered.

Dipper didn’t slow down, moving from room to room in the giant house as he searched for the exit.

“No way in hell,” he said. “No one is going to see us together. This never happened. I’ll call someone myself.”

“If you’re looking for the front door, it’s this way,” Bill said. He grabbed Dipper’s arm, suddenly right behind him (how did he move so silently all the time?), and guided him around another corner to the house’s entryway. 

Dipper pulled his arm out of Bill’s grip and gave him a death glare, which was met of course with the evil grin that hadn’t left the blond’s face all afternoon.

“I’m serious, Bill. Never speak of this. Ever.”

“Fine by me.”

“Good,” Dipper said. “And I just want you to know that I hate you and hope you rot in hell for all eternity.”

“Yep,” Bill said, moving ahead of Dipper to open the door for him. “Wish we’d never even met.”

Right then, the feeling was absolutely mutual.


	2. Wedding Receptions and Coffee in an Elevator

_2 Years Earlier_

 

Being an unpaid intern was not all it was cracked up to be, and that’s saying something. So far, Dipper’s first day at _The Daily Chronicle_ had consisted of a ridiculous amount of awkward introductions to a bunch of stressed out co-workers until finally, someone sent him out for coffee.

The _Chronicle,_ although it claimed to be a reliable news source, was little more than a gossip magazine, and Dipper hadn’t been excited about working there in the first place. However, after turning in his applications late, this was the actually the best option that had an open intern position for him that fall. So there he was, compensated only in class credits for his trouble of memorizing the staff’s needlessly complicated coffee orders and searching for the nearest Starbucks to get them.

Dipper didn’t see how this was teaching him much about journalism.

For a city as big as New York, the nearest coffee shop had been a surprisingly long walk. That was why, as he re-entered the twenty-five story building where the _Chronicle_ rented its office space, he was relieved to see the elevator’s open doors waiting for him. 

As he hurried toward it, he could see someone already standing inside. Since he was still a few long paces away, Dipper called out to the elevator’s lone passenger. 

“Hey! Could you hold the doors for a second?”

The guy in the elevator looked up, obviously hearing Dipper’s request to hold the elevator, and then he just…didn’t. The doors started to close, and Dipper, still in shock from the stranger’s rudeness and just generally being an awkward person, picked up the pace and ran for it. He made it just in time, twisting his body to fit through the narrowing space between the doors and spilling one of the coffees on his drink tray in the process. 

“Damn it,” Dipper groaned, gazing down at his ruined shirt as the hot - but thankfully not scalding - coffee for one of his supervisors dripped down his chest.

A stifled laugh reminded Dipper that he was not alone in the elevator.

“Yeah, very funny,” Dipper muttered, glaring at the guy who could’ve held the door for him and prevented all this. “I asked you to hold the elevator, you know.” 

“And? Who died and made you king of the elevator?” the stranger asked, while continuing to laugh.

Dipper felt his face burning. Who did this guy think he was?

“Alright, if that’s the way it is,” Dipper said, before turning and pressing the button for every single one of the building’s twenty-five floors. 

The elevator began to ascend, stopping every couple of seconds and opening its doors only to find that no one was waiting for it. Dipper and the stranger stood there silently for several empty floors, waiting angrily as their ride moved upward at a painfully slow pace.

_The Daily Chronicle’s_ offices were on the twentieth floor.

“Are you pleased with yourself now?” the stranger asked as the doors opened to the once-again-empty fifth floor. 

Dipper swallowed, realizing that he may not have completely thought this through.

“You started it,” he said.

The stranger sighed, and Dipper turned to get a good look at him for the first time. He was blond, fairly tall, and thin, with the ends of an unidentifiable black tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He had a nice camera on a strap looped around his neck, and he was staring right back at Dipper with an annoyed yet amused kind of expression on his face.

On the eighth floor, two chatty women got on, but they only needed a ride up to the next floor. Then Dipper was alone with the camera-wearing stranger again.

“Are you the new intern? At the _Chronicle?_ I heard we were getting one,” the blond said.

“Yeah, that’d be me,” Dipper sighed. 

Ten more stops.

“I’m Bill. One of their photographers.” 

“Dipper.”

“That’s a weird name.”

“Gee, thanks. It’s kind of a nickname I guess.”

“You picked it yourself? Even worse.”

Dipper glared at the number above the elevator doors, willing the claustrophobic metal box to move faster. Eight more stops. Seven more stops.

“Oh great,” Bill muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Well, Dipper, since you’re new here, you probably don’t know,” Bill said, “But there’s a supervisor at the _Chronicle_ named Randy. He’s my supervisor, and he’s a real tight-ass. Randy likes to have all the pictures for the next day uploaded by noon. If they’re not uploaded, they won’t get published, and I don’t get paid.”

Bill paused, but whether it was for dramatic effect or because he expected Dipper to say something was impossible to tell. Dipper was too busy thinking about how much he hated Bill’s condescending tone to care anyway. 

“It’s 11:57. So, thanks to you, it looks like I’m not going to make it in time,” Bill finished.

“Actually, if you had just held the doors for me like a decent human being, this wouldn’t have happened. So this is completely your own fault.”

Bill chuckled darkly as the elevator finally, _finally_ reached the twentieth floor.

“Well, as you might soon find out, I’m not really a decent human being. Enjoy your coffee stains.” 

Bill stepped out of the elevator and was almost out of sight by the time Dipper was able to yell, “Y-Yeah, well, enjoy your - your being late to upload photos you jerk!”

Dipper glanced down at the coffee puddle on his shirt and stormed off in search of a decent paper towel. 

* * *

By some miracle, Dipper had managed to make it to his sister’s wedding on time. There were the obvious “where-the-hell-have-you-been” glares, and the annoyed photographer had to stick around a few extra minutes because Dipper hadn’t been there for the family photos before the wedding. Besides that, luckily, almost everyone was too distracted by the brides to care about Dipper’s disappearing act. For the most part, lame excuses and small talk were enough to avoid suspicion.

The busy atmosphere of it all and the secondhand happiness he got from watching his sister so overjoyed was enough to put Dipper in a better mood than he would’ve thought possible that morning. Not to mention the stunning locations: a pavilion right on the beach for the wedding, and a gorgeous modern ballroom complete with impeccable decorations for the reception. 

Although they’d taken their time warming up to Mabel - and the rest of the Pines family, for that matter - the Northwests had spared no expense for the occasion, it seemed. There was nothing about the setup that wasn’t picture perfect. 

Except, of course, the bride’s disaster of a brother. He was hoping to find some way to make that up to her, but they’d only been able to have a few brief conversations throughout the day. Everyone was just as eager to talk with the newlyweds as he was, after all. Of course, being the kind of girl that she was, Mabel didn’t seem to be bothered by anything that day. She and Pacifica looked like a pair of Disney princesses in their dresses, both glowing with a magical kind of happiness that only a couple truly in love could have.  

Just by watching them, Dipper could tell that there was no need for him to worry that Mabel was angry. But when the two of them finally caught a moment to talk beside an empty buffet table, he still felt the need to apologize one more time.

 “Hey, look, about this morning—”

 “No, no, I didn’t come over here and hide from my adoring fans just so you could apologize again,” Mabel cut him off. “I came over here because I’m happy and you’re my brother and so let’s both just be happy for a minute, okay?”

 She leaned forward and wrapped him in a constricting bear hug, and Dipper smiled.

 “Okay, okay. I am happy, you know. How could I not be, seeing you two like this? It’s contagious.”

 Mabel pulled back, beaming, and extended her left hand. “Look at that. That’s a wedding ring. I’m married! Can you believe it? I think I’ll just keep saying it until the fun wears off.”

 “I can’t believe it either. It’s crazy. I feel so old right now,” Dipper said. His tone was joking, but considering the whole twin-telepathy thing, Mabel could sense a hidden meaning behind the comment.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. We’re not old yet. Most people our age haven’t found their soulmate yet. Paz and I just got lucky,” Mabel said, giving Dipper an encouraging little elbow nudge. “You’ll meet yours sometime soon. Who knows, maybe you’ve already met them!”

 “Somehow I don’t think that’s the case,” Dipper scoffed.

 “Hey, you never know! Love can blossom from the most unlikely of places.”

 “That was cheesy.”

 “Cheesy but true!” Mabel insisted. “Anyway, I can’t hide anymore. I promised Pacifica’s little cousin that she could have one of the rhinestone things in my hair, and now I think she’s hunting me down.”

 “Good luck with that,” Dipper said as his sister edged away from their hidden pocket of peace.

 “Thanks. And I’m totally serious, by the way! Keep your eyes open!”

 “Right,” Dipper mumbled, “I’ll work on that.”

* * *

The wedding reception lasted well past sundown, as most tend to do, and Dipper was tired by the time he headed back to his hotel, despite his late start to the day. He would’ve liked nothing better than to take a long, hot shower and collapse into bed. Unfortunately for him, there was something that had to be dealt with before he could get to any of that.

Because lo and behold, there was Bill, standing outside his hotel room, leaning casually against the door as if he were waiting for the bus. Dipper stood a few paces away and for a moment, the two just stared at each other, not speaking, as Dipper internally fumed. 

_Of_ ** _course_** _he showed up here. What was I expecting? If you give him an inch, he takes a mile. You can’t trust a thing he says, he can’t control his impulses, and he won’t give up until he gets what he wants because he’s a spoiled little shit. What do I even say to him right now? I’ve got to say something._

_"_ First of all, how did you find out which room I was in?” Dipper asked, already dreading the answer.

“Told the girl at the front desk that I was a private investigator and she’d be helping me with a case.”

“And she believed you?”

“I can be very convincing. Fair warning, though, most of the hotel staff may now think that you’re a con artist who ran an investment scheme on a very unfortunate heiress.” 

“Great. Thanks for that. Now, care to tell me why you’re here?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Bill said with a shrug.

“Right,” Dipper said. “Well, this might be hard for you to hear, but sometimes you don’t get what you want. Now leave.” 

Bill didn’t leave his spot, and seeing as he was blocking the door, Dipper really didn’t have anywhere else to go either. The two of them held their ground, waiting for the other to break. Dipper wasn’t going to let him have this one.

“I could stand here all night,” Dipper said.

“But is that a good idea? There are other people from the wedding staying here, right? Your friends and family? Wouldn’t it be unfortunate for you if one of them saw us here?” 

Dipper hadn't thought about that. Of course, Bill knew that, and he knew that _making_ Dipper think of it was the best way to get inside his head. And Dipper hated proving him right more than anything, but suddenly he was worried that someone from the wedding party, someone in his own family, would walk in and spot him standing with Bill. Anyone who knew anything about Dipper would recognize his ex, and then what would they think?  


“Five minutes,” Dipper said through gritted teeth. “Inside, where we won’t be seen.”

“You and your pride,” Bill grinned. “You’re making it too easy for me.” 

He stepped away from the door so Dipper could unlock it.

Dipper thought about slipping into the room and then shutting the door behind him, but he wasn’t quick enough. Bill had his hand on the door before Dipper had finished entering the room. Always one step ahead.

“Alright, get on with it,” Dipper said once they were hidden from any potential snooping family members.

“You won’t like it,” Bill sighed.

“I know,” Dipper said without missing a beat.

“After you left this morning, I had a thought.”

“Congratulations,” Dipper replied flatly.

“No, seriously, hear me out. What if the two of us had…an arrangement, let’s call it?”

“An _arrangement?”_ Dipper really, really didn’t like where this was going.

“Yeah. Because, obviously we both know that the two of us don't work emotionally, socially, etcetera. But _physically…_ I mean, you really can’t deny there’s something worth keeping, right?”

“Are…are you implying what I think you’re implying right now?” Dipper sputtered.

“Why not?” Bill said. “No one has to know. It’d be like friends with benefits, except we don’t even have to be friends! That means no worrying about self-consciousness or awkward emotional stuff because at the end of the day, we pretty much hate each other anyway!”  

Dipper choked out a laugh of pure disbelief. 

“No way, absolutely not! Do I seriously seem that desperate to you? And answering that with an insult is not going to help your case.” 

Bill groaned. “No, don’t think of it like that. Just think of it logically. We’ve been together before, right?”

Bill stepped forward and Dipper stepped backward, attempting to keep a good distance between them. After a few steps Dipper’s back hit the dresser behind him, and he had no time to move before Bill was right in front of him, too close, speaking quietly a few inches from his ear. 

“So we already know how to drive each other crazy.”

Dipper felt heat rising to his cheeks as Bill’s fingers tiptoed up his chest, his shoulders, toward the back of his neck…

“Stop,” Dipper forced himself to pull away, his pulse moving faster than he cared to admit. “I’m not doing this with you, not _ever,_ okay? Your five minutes are up.”

“Fine,” Bill shrugged, seeming unfazed. He pulled something out of his back pocket and set it on top of the dresser that Dipper had just been leaning against. “If you change your mind once you’re back in New York, that’s where to find me.”  

“Oh please. You don’t know me!” Dipper insisted as Bill turned to leave. “I’m not changing my mind. There’s no way.” 

“Okay, sure,” Bill said, without even bothering to turn around.

“I’m serious! I’m going to rip up this paper right now!” 

As Bill slipped back into the hallway, Dipper snatched the tiny paper from the dresser and stared at the address, written in Bill’s messy handwriting that he’d always had trouble reading. He held it tightly on both ends, pulling slightly, waiting for it to tear in half.

Then he stopped and set it back down on the dresser. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dipper you know you could've just stuck out your arm and the doors would've opened right
> 
> Anyway I went ahead and changed the rating just in case, and in other news I am trash.
> 
> As always thanks for reading/commenting/kudos! Can't actually believe so many people are interested in this but ok this is good.


	3. Glitter Bombs and Accidental Flirting

_2 Years Earlier_

 

The day after the elevator incident was a Tuesday. Dipper had morning classes on Tuesday, and his internship hours worked around them, so he ended up coming in a few hours later than usual. When he arrived at his desk, he found something there waiting for him besides a stack of articles to proofread. 

There was a small brown paper bag with a sticky note attached. The handwriting on the note was awful, nearly impossible to read, but after a few minutes of squinting Dipper managed to figure it out.

_Sorry about yesterday. Consider this a peace offering?_

_\- Bill_

Dipper was instantly skeptical. That guy didn’t seem like the type to forgive and forget so quickly. He’d flat out said that he wasn’t a decent human being, hadn’t he? Dipper decided to see what was in the bag anyway.

He unfolded the top of the bag and peeked inside to see a single doughnut, wrapped neatly with wax paper like it was from a pastry shop. It was glazed and looked like it might be filled with icing or jelly or something like that. The smell of it made Dipper’s stomach growl - he rarely made time for a decent breakfast.

The present seemed innocent enough. Maybe Dipper had been wrong about Bill. Maybe he wasn’t always such an asshole after all. People have mood swings and bad days. What did he know?

Dipper pulled the doughnut from the bag and unfolded the wax paper, giving the pastry one last inspection. When he still couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary, he took a bite. And gagged. 

Whatever was in the doughnut was strong, minty, artificial, and definitely not meant to be eaten for breakfast. It was _toothpaste,_ Dipper realized as he tried not to gag again. Several people at nearby desks were already shooting him very concerned looks.  He forced himself to swallow the toothpaste-saturated bite before shoving the rest of the sabotaged pastry into the nearest trashcan.

“You’ve got to be _kidding me_ ,” he muttered to himself. “That’s _real_ mature.”

Dipper wasn’t just going to stand there. He had to say something to Bill about this. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he knew he was going to say _something._ Because seriously, who does things like that? 

He stormed off toward where he recalled the photography office being. He’d only briefly seen the area while he was being shown around the day before, but he remembered enough to find the open doorway marked “Photography Studio”. It wasn’t much of a studio; the room consisted of a handful of desks that held very large computer monitors and a fancy looking printer in the corner.

Only one of the desks was occupied, and the person sitting there was not familiar. He was some dark-haired hipster type munching on a breakfast burrito and squinting at the photoshop window on his computer. He appeared totally oblivious to Dipper’s presence.

But then he spoke. “Are you the doughnut guy?”

 The question caught Dipper off guard. “What?”

The hipster looked up from his computer. “Let me guess. You’re looking for Bill, right? Blond guy, tattoos, might actually be the devil?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Dipper said. It seemed he wasn’t the only one of Bill’s victims.

“Well he’s not here right now, obviously,” the hipster said. “But he left his coffee on his desk, so he won’t be gone long. You can wait for him if you want.”

Dipper eyed the coffee mug on the desk beside the printer. Then his gaze shifted to the red bottle of Sriracha that his new friend was using to spice up his breakfast wrap.

A little voice in his head told him not to do it. It would make him no better than Bill, and there was definitely a better way to handle things. But somehow this would be much more satisfying.

“Actually, can I just borrow that?” Dipper nodded to the Sriracha.

Hipster raised an eyebrow. “Alright, if that’s what you want to do. But I wasn’t the one who gave it to you.”

"Not a problem,” Dipper said, before strolling across the room to pour a generous amount of the hot sauce into Bill’s coffee mug. “I have no problem taking all the credit.”

The yellow post-it notes that Bill had used to fool Dipper were sitting in plain sight on the desk, so Dipper swiped one and wrote a note of his own, which he carefully stuck to the bottom of the mug in hopes that Bill wouldn’t notice it until it was too late.

_Thanks for the breakfast. Thought I’d return the favor._

_-Dipper_

The following day, Dipper was on edge, waiting for Bill to pull some other stunt and get his revenge. Luckily, the anxious hours went by without Dipper seeing him or suffering from any more of his pranks. As he left that afternoon, he thought that maybe Bill had actually just given up, and the whole thing was over.

It was raining when he left, and since the downpour had been ongoing since that morning, Dipper had brought an umbrella with him to work. As he stepped outside he opened it without a second thought, and had already lifted it over his head before he felt a shower of a different kind covering him from top to bottom.

It was glitter. Literally as much glitter as the inside of an umbrella could hold, now stuck in his hair, on his clothes, even right down to his shoes. And last but not least, another sticky note crinkled and jammed into the tip of the umbrella. Dipper pulled it out and read it, even though there was no question where the glitter bomb had come from.

_Crazy weather we’re having._

_-Bill_

Alright. So it wasn’t over. Game on.

The next morning, early, even before his classes, Dipper was sneaking into the photography studio with a bag full of cheap, digital alarm clocks that he’d actually spent his own money on the evening before. Each of them was set to go off just a few minutes apart later that day. Dipper carefully hid each of them in a place where they’d be heard but not seen: under the desk, inside of drawers, behind the computer, and so on.

He was perfectly aware that he was getting way too into this, but it was so much fun that he didn’t really care. 

His note this time said:

_Trying to find them all before they go off is literally a race against the clock._

_-Dipper_

That was the first time that Dipper actually got to see Bill in person again, as he came marching up to Dipper’s desk with an armful of the digital clocks around lunch time. Dipper wondered if Bill would actually be pissed off that time, but he wore a slightly amused, slightly mischievous grin instead of a scowl. Dipper wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

“I have to say, I’m impressed with this one,” Bill said, dropping his pile of clocks beside Dipper’s computer. “Is that all of them?”

Dipper glanced up from the article he was editing to count the clocks.

“There’s one more,” he lied, “but you’ll never find it.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bill replied, dashing off the way he’d come.

Dipper turned back around to his work and smiled to himself, wondering what Bill would think up to get revenge tomorrow. Strangely, he was looking forward to it more than he was dreading it.

The next morning, a Friday, Dipper found another sticky note lying on his desk.

_Don’t look up._

_-Bill_

Somehow, the strange, out-of-context message was much more ominous than any of Bill’s previous pranks. Dipper wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but of course, since it said not to look up, that was the first thing he did. There didn’t seem to be anything up there on the ceiling, so it wasn’t that kind of trick. Or maybe that was just what Bill wanted him to think?

Hours passed without anything happening, and Dipper was restless. He found as many excuses as possible to get up and walk around. He ended up offering to run to the copier for pretty much anyone in the office, since that gave him the chance to pass the photography room and peek inside.

Bill wasn’t giving away any hints at what the prank would be. He didn’t seem to notice Dipper’s constant stalking; he was always either staring at his computer or he wasn’t at his desk at all, and Dipper found himself wondering where Bill disappeared to all the time.

  _Am I obsessing too much over this?_ Dipper thought to himself.

_No, no this is a perfectly normal amount of obsessing when someone obviously has a diabolical prank planned._

_But what if this is just what he wants me to do? What if there isn’t even any prank at all?_

_Maybe I should just walk by there again and see if he’s up to something._

_No, that’s creepy, he might notice me._

_But why should I care if he does? It’s not like I’m worried about what he thinks._

_Right? Or am I?_

Before Dipper could come to a conclusion on that one, his train of thought was broken by the slightly irritated stares of everyone within earshot of his desk. He froze, and for a second he was terrified that he’d been having that whole rant out loud instead of in his head (it wouldn’t be the first time).

Then he heard what everyone else had been hearing this whole time.

Somewhere very close to him, George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” - you know, the song with the saxophone - could be heard very faintly, as if through a radio with bad reception. This had to be it, finally! Dipper jumped up from his chair.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, without really meaning to.

Then, before he had time to figure out where the music was coming from, it stopped. The entire office seemed to fall into complete silence. No one was kind enough to drop their stares, and most of them now looked concerned for Dipper’s sanity.

“I, uh, I just, uh, got this - this great idea for, um, this thing…this thing that I’m working on. Right now,” Dipper explained, before sinking back into his chair and turning to stare blankly at his computer screen.

He hoped his face wasn’t turning red, but how could it not be after that? He could still feel half of the office watching him, and he clicked at random icons on his computer until, one by one, the watchful eyes of his coworkers turned away and Dipper was able to rest his head on his desk in complete mortification.

He had only been like that for a few seconds when he heard it. First, a brief crackle like radio static. Then there it was again, that infamously overused sexy-sax solo, barely audible and coming from somewhere very close by.

Dipper got back on his feet and turned a circle, listening closely. It was so close, like he was standing right on top of it, but he couldn’t see where the music was coming from. Then, again much too quickly, it stopped. Dipper groaned in exasperation.

Then he remembered Bill’s note. “Don’t look up” - was it a trick, or a hint?

Since he didn’t particularly feel like searching the ceiling for a hidden speaker or radio or something, Dipper decided to read it as a hint. Don’t look up. So where should he look?

“Don’t look up, look down,” Dipper muttered, only partly aware that he really was talking to himself that time. “Look down…below, underneath…underneath the desk?”

He leaned down and squinted into the shadows under his desk, but he didn’t see anything there. Dipper straightened his back and paced a circle around his tiny workspace. Where else could it be? If it wasn’t under the desk, then…

Dipper eyed his chair suspiciously. It couldn’t be.

He leaned down again and looked underneath his chair. He almost missed it, but a flash of silver duct tape caught his eye at the last second. There was something attached to the bottom of his chair.

Dipper pulled it off, and the sound of the ripping duct tape was enough to attract everyone’s attention again. It didn’t seem to matter as much this time, since Dipper was too focused on the fact that he’d finally figured out the prank, and the whole time it had only been the stupid walkie-talkie that he held in his hand.

He pressed the button. “Okay, I found it. Now will you cut it out with the music?”

“Maybe,” Bill replied. “But you forgot to say  _‘over’._ Over.”

“I can’t believe this was the stupid prank the whole time.  _Over.”_

“I know. I like messing with your head. I saw you stalking me all day. Over.”

Dipper cringed, and was glad Bill couldn’t see the embarrassment on his face. Apparently he hadn’t been very subtle.

“Well whatever. I don’t care. I’m bringing this thing back to you. Over.”

Dipper hurried down the now-familiar route to the photography room. He intended to march up to Bill’s desk, drop the walkie-talkie in front of him, and march back out; however, when he entered the room, the sight of Bill sitting there with the music video for “Careless Whisper” still open on his computer and that mischievous smirk on his face, Dipper couldn’t help but realize the full stupidity of it all.

He started laughing. Quietly at first, then harder, until he was almost in tears.

“This is ridiculous,” Dipper paused long enough to say. “I mean - the toothpaste and the Sriracha and the glitter and everything. And this. What are we even doing?”

“I don’t know,” Bill said, a hint of laughter in his voice as well, “But the office has been a lot more fun since you showed up.”

Dipper managed to pull himself together long enough to finish crossing the room and hand Bill his walkie-talkie. Bill stared at it for a second and then started laughing again, just for a moment.

“I actually spent twenty dollars on these walkie-talkies yesterday.”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “Oh please. All those alarm clocks cost me twenty-two fifty.”

“Well we can’t have that,” Bill said. “An extra two-fifty is just unfair.”

“So what are you saying?” Dipper asked.

“I’m saying we’ll make it even. How about I take you out to lunch sometime?”

That one caught Dipper off guard. He uttered a brilliant, “Um,” before the words in his mouth were frozen and he was taken over by the nervous and confused thoughts in his head.

_This seems really random. Is it random? Or has he been flirting with me? I’ve never been good at catching on to these things._

_Wait, was that what this was the whole time? Was he flirting with me from the start? Was I also flirting with him from the start? Or was there just a point where it_ **_became_ ** _flirting? But if that’s true, then when was that point? Because I definitely did not notice it becoming flirting._

_Did we both just start flirting with each other by accident?_

_But he's not as bad as I thought. I don’t think I really mind that he’s been flirting with me. If that’s what happened._

_Now flirting doesn’t seem like a word._

_Has he always been this cute?_

_Is it hot in here?_

“Alright, well, if you ever get past that ‘um’, you can text me or call me or something. We can set something up.”

Bill grabbed Dipper’s hand and pulled it closer, before picking up a pen and scribbling a set of numbers on Dipper’s hand. He let go with a purposeful slowness.

“See you later.”

“Uh, y-yeah, um, I think that, um, hopefully you probably will,” Dipper said, and as he backed away from Bill’s desk he wondered how he’d temporarily forgotten English.

Why had this conversation been so easy a few seconds ago, and now it was impossible? Dipper cursed his social awkwardness as he gave Bill one last shy wave and then turned around to rush out of the room.

For a few minutes all Dipper could think about was how embarrassing that had been and how he could never possibly have the courage to call Bill after that fiasco. But after those few minutes passed, all he could think about was when he'd be available for lunch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psh what a couple of dorks
> 
> Sorry it's been so long. I got my wisdom teeth out meaning I was on hella drugs and couldn't really write for a few days. 
> 
> But I'm back! Next chapter will be out more quickly and it'll be back to the present. 
> 
> Thanks for reading/commenting/kudos!


	5. Bad Dates and Important Ground Rules

There are creepy guys, and then there are the guys who talk about serial killers for the better part of an hour. This guy, Jonathan Something-or-other, had seemed nice enough when Dipper had first talked to him online, over the dating app his sister had recently convinced him to try. They had even seemed to have some things in common. After meeting Jonathan in person, at the extremely sketchy Thai restaurant that he had suggested, Dipper had never been more creeped out by a person in his life.

Coming from Dipper, that meant a lot.

“Now, H.H. Holmes: America’s first _real_ serial killer. In 1893 he builds what you could basically call a castle of murder, with - what was it - something like sixty windowless rooms that he used to trap and torture all of his victims. He got away with it for years by disguising the place as a hotel.” 

“Ah, wow, that _is_ something,” Dipper strained to sound casual as he stirred the soup he’d barely touched. As mentioned, the place was sketchy.

“Isn’t it though? I find the mind of the killer so fascinating. Like, to have the ability to brutally murder so many people and get away with it for so long… there’s just something about it, you know?”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Dipper laughed nervously, unsure of what exactly he was agreeing with but much too afraid to disagree. “S-So anyway, how did you find out about this restaurant? I’ve, uh, never been here before.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Me and the owner buy meat from the same place.”

_What does_ ** _that_** _mean?_

Dipper pushed his bowl toward the middle of the table.

“Anyway, what size hat do you wear?”

“…What size  _hat_ do I wear? I don’t know. W-Why do you ask?” Dipper said.

Jonathan shrugged again. “No reason in particular. Not really important, never mind.”

He laughed as if the whole hat thing was some old inside joke between them, and that was the last straw. Dipper stood up from the table slightly too fast, slightly too aggressively. A little bit of the sketchy meat-from-the-same-place soup sloshed on to the table as Dipper stumbled backwards.

“I-I just remembered that I have to go somewhere else. It’s very important and I, uh, I can’t miss it, so, sorry. Bye.”

“Wait, what - where are you going?” Jonathan asked, and he sounded as if he genuinely didn’t understand why Dipper was doing that not-quite-running kind of fast walk toward the door.

“I, uh, I have a thing w-with someone I know,” Dipper turned around to answer but continued backing toward the doorway. “It’s no big deal really, e-except it is, uh, and I have to leave right now.”

Then he made a break for it.

He dashed out of the sketchy Thai restaurant and booked it down the street. He fast-walked until the restaurant was out of sight, just to be safe, before hailing a cab and collapsing into the back seat. Had that really just happened?

“Where to?” the cab driver asked.

“Just drive, just get me out of here, and give me a minute to think. I’ll pay you extra or whatever, I just have to get out of here or I think I might be dismembered.”

“Whatever you say, buddy,” the driver mumbled as he pulled away from the curb.

As they weaved through traffic, Dipper buried his face in his hands and tried to erase the last hour of his life from his memory. He would have to, if he ever wanted to sleep again.

_Did I really just go on an actual date with that potential mass murderer? Or serial killer? Are those the same thing? I think they’re different, but I don’t know the exact definition._

_Ugh, who cares?_

_What is wrong with me?_

_What will it take for me to meet someone actually decent?_

_I mean, that has to take the cake as the worst date ever, but lately they’ve all been pretty bad. When was the last time I actually went out with someone and had a good time?_

Of course the question was rhetorical. Dipper knew the answer, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“Hey, am I gonna get an address soon, or are we just gonna keep driving in circles here?” the driver barked, startling Dipper out of his spiraling thoughts.

Suddenly Dipper could feel that tiny paper that he’d saved burning a hole through his wallet. His hand twitched, reaching into his jacket pocket.

_No, no, no, you are not doing this,_ he told himself.

He pulled his wallet out and starting shifting through it.

_Stop it, stop it right now, you know you don’t actually want to do this. Right? You_ **_don’t._ **

There was that paper. There was that handwriting. There was that address.

_Don’t do this to yourself, this will not end well for anyone and you know it._

Dipper swore he was not in control of his mouth when he read the address off the tiny slip of paper, swore he was not in control of his hands as he paid the cab driver for taking him there, and swore he was not in control of his feet as he stepped out of the taxi and stood there watching it drive away.

But in spite of all that he turned and went inside of Bill’s stupidly fancy apartment building; there was a doorman there in the lobby behind a desk because  _of course_ Bill would live in a stupidly fancy apartment building with a doorman and a front desk. Dipper stood there staring at said doorman for long enough that he asked, “Can I help you?”

At that point it was too late to turn and run, or at least that’s what Dipper told himself.

“Y-Yeah, I’m here to visit, uh, the guy in 21A,” Dipper said.

The doorman obviously noticed Dipper’s awkwardness. “Okay, and might I ask for a name?”

“Dipper Pines,” he grumbled, as if the doorman had somehow forced him to give up a name instead of asking politely.

“Alright, I’ll give him a ring,” the doorman said, because Bill lived in one of those apartments where you have to “give people a ring” instead of buzzing the intercom, and that made Dipper want to punch him in the face.

As his thoughts were so intently focused on hating Bill and hating himself for coming here anyway, he barely noticed the doorman speaking into the phone for a few seconds before turning around and saying, “Alright, you can go ahead and take the elevator up.”

On the ride to the 21st floor, Dipper stood there staring blankly ahead, trying not to think about where he was and what he was doing there, because he knew that even if he dwelled on the fact that he should not be there, he wasn’t going to leave now. He’d come too far, and Bill had gotten in his head, and so just like before he was speeding down a hill in a car with no brakes. There was no question that this was going to end in a fiery explosion of some sort, literal or metaphorical, but there was no stopping it.

The elevator opened, and it only took a few seconds for Dipper to walk up to the front door of Bill’s apartment. Technically, this was his final chance to turn around, but as Dipper thought about it, he figured that the point of no return had actually happened in the taxi.

Dipper felt no need to knock, since Bill was already expecting him and probably wouldn’t even hear it because his stupid apartment was so big. Dipper opened the door and stepped inside. The place was quiet, and from the entranceway he couldn't see anyone.

“Hello?” he called.

“In here,” Bill’s voice echoed from somewhere to the right.

Dipper walked to the end of the entrance hallway and stepped into the spacious living room to his right. This was a different apartment than the one Bill had lived in when they met, but in some ways, it was the same. The expansive space, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the decor that must have come with the apartment because it didn't suit Bill at all; it was different, but still so coldly familiar.

Bill was sitting on a modern gray couch, his feet propped on top of a wood and glass coffee table that probably cost as much as Dipper’s monthly rent. He was staring at something on his laptop and eating from a giant bag of Sour Patch Kids. Judging by past experience with Bill and the amount of candy missing from the bag, Dipper would guess that he’d been living solely off of the sour gummies for about two days.

The fact that Bill was not dead yet was a miracle for many reasons.

“You’re late,” Bill said without looking up from his computer screen.

“What?” Dipper asked, although he had a feeling the answer would only piss him off.

 Bill looked away from whatever he’d been staring at so that he could flash Dipper that irritating smirk. “I made a bet with myself that you’d be here within a week of getting back from Hawaii. You’re three days late. At least I was close.”

_I hate that he knows me. He thinks he knows everything. What a pretentious asshole. He doesn’t know half of what he thinks he knows._

“Oh, please. Don’t act like you’re so smart,” Dipper said. “You…You can’t even spell  _definitely.”_

They’d had this argument at least a billion times.

“What are you talking about?” Bill asked.

“You always spell it wrong. I have to correct you every time, because you never have your damn spellcheck on.”

“That’s not true!”

“Then spell it right now.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you!” Bill threw a Sour Patch Kid that hit Dipper directly on the nose.

_“Ow!”_ he said.

"Oh come on! How did that hurt you?”

Dipper rolled his eyes instead of answering. He still couldn’t believe that he was actually here, having this stupid conversation - if it could even be called a conversation. He should have just gone home. He had actual food at his apartment, and he was hungry after refusing to eat that suspicious Thai food.

Dipper sat down on the couch beside Bill and grabbed a handful of Sour Patch Kids. He didn’t ask permission, but Bill didn’t stop him. He just closed his laptop and stared at Dipper as he ate the candies in one bite. He did it on purpose, because he knew it annoyed Bill when people ate them that way. Bill always bit them in half, feet first, so they would suffer more.

Come to think of it, Bill had some serial-killer tendencies of his own.

“So let’s get to the point already. I take it you’re here because you’ve reconsidered my… _offer?_ ” Bill said.

He was still doing that stupid smirk thing, and now that he’d said it, and he and Dipper had locked eyes, the air in the room was completely different. Dipper couldn’t recall ever feeling this much sexual tension while sitting beside a jumbo bag of Sour Patch Kids.

“I - I’m not going to do anything until we establish some ground rules.”

Bill just stared at him for a few seconds, silently. Then, without warning, he broke into a fit of hysterical laughter for no apparent reason at all.

“What? Why are you laughing?”

_“Establish_ some  _ground rules?”_ Bill repeated mockingly. “What - did you just try and find the least sexy thing you could say at that moment?”

He continued laughing, even as Dipper tried to speak over him.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. Stop laughing. I’m serious.”

Still laughing.

“Bill. I will get up and leave right now.”

“No you won’t,” Bill said.

And he was right. But Dipper didn’t say that.

Finally, Bill’s laughter quieted and he spoke again. “Alright. Tell me your  _ground rules.”_

“Okay. First of all, no one else can know about this.  _No one,”_ Dipper emphasized.

“Fine with me,” Bill said. “What else?”

“Second, this can’t be an exclusive thing in any way. I’m going to be seeing other people, and you’re not going to interfere with it.”

“Okay, good luck with that,” Bill said, a sarcastic edge to his words as usual.

“Shut up.”

“Anyway, while we’re  _establishing ground rules,_ I have one that needs to be added. The most important one,” Bill said.

“Which is?”

“This whole thing is no-strings-attached. No  _caring_ about each other or getting  _feelings_ or any of that other gross emotional stuff that messed us up the last time. Right?”

“Of course,” Dipper agreed.

“Good.”

“Okay. So it’s settled then.”

The room went quiet again, and the two of them were just sitting there on the couch, very close, almost touching. They stared at each other, neither making a move. Bill’s face didn’t give any hint to his thoughts, but Dipper was feeling a slight nervousness along with that weird kind of attraction that you can only feel when you hate someone but think they’re kinda hot at the same time.

“So…now what?” Dipper said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Well…” Bill shoved the laptop and the bag of candy off the couch, inching a tiny bit closer, so that their faces were barely an inch apart. “How about you let me establish your ground rules?”

“I hate you,” Dipper said, before shoving Bill away.

He was laughing again. It really wasn’t that funny.

“You ruin everything and I hate you!” Dipper repeated, but it didn’t make Bill stop laughing. “Will you  _shut up?”_

Then Bill took Dipper by surprise: his laughter abruptly stopped and he grabbed the front of Dipper’s shirt, pulling him forward so that he could get his mouth right next to Dipper’s ear.

Dipper felt more than heard the next whispered words: “Why don’t you try and make me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo boy howdy he said the thing.
> 
> Also important update: I'm about to go to the beach with my friends for a week, and I probably won't be able to write during that time, so it might be a longer wait for the next chapter. Sorry readers.
> 
> As always thanks for reading/commenting/kudos! Until next time.


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